


That Bind

by iphigenias



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: He can almost hear O’Brien now:when did you get so sentimental?Perhaps he always was. Perhaps no one gave him the chance to be.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Comments: 26
Kudos: 101





	That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> the other day i tweeted "do u ever think about how thomas barrow wants to be loyal so badly if only there were people who were loyal to him" and haven't rested since. this is officially the longest thing i have written since handing in my thesis last year; it's a strange feeling. first time writing for the abbey and still finding my sea legs, so sorry for inaccuracies! also sorry for any historical inaccuracies, i am a recent history graduate and could not bring myself to dive back into research just yet *bootscoots away*
> 
> standard warnings for downton season 2, sans spanish flu and courtenay's suicide, as well as domestic/child abuse. 
> 
> i owe everything to marnie for giving this is a read over despite having never seen the show. i miss you, dear.

**one.**

Thomas dreams in increments. He couldn’t tell you what they’re about once he wakes; only that they pile on top of one another like so many layers of earth. Thomas knows all about that now. Top soil, sub soil. Parent and bed rock beneath. He knows how they feel pressed against his sweat-slicked skin; how the grit gets in the teeth and lives there, even after it’s been spit out. Carson once told him, in a fit of magnanimity, how to tell a good red wine. Got to be earthy, he’d said. Full-bodied; rich. Like dirt is a privilege you pay for. Thomas knows better, now.

Wouldn’t Carson just love that.

**two.**

He goes into service and learns how to look invisible; how to carry a tray without tilting, how to button a waistcoat without the man wearing it feeling a thing. He smokes to have something to do with his hands when they’re idle; can’t get the proverb out of his head, though he’s sins worse than laziness. He broke his wrist, once, when he was eight. Clean, Dr Marsham had said. As long as he doesn’t go climbing any more trees. The recovery had been worse than the break, in a way. At least two working hands gave him an excuse to get out of the house.

Thomas had been near the top of the old black poplar at the edge of the yard when he’d fallen. Had been trying to reach the canopy and see what lay beyond the four sides of the house and garden he knew so well; that’s where he first did a cartwheel, that’s the room his baby sister was born in, that’s the clock on the wall his father beat him silly for breaking, that’s the patch of grass his mother stood on to feel the sun against her pale face at the end. It’d been a dry spell, though, and the second branch from the top snapped clean in his hands, just like Thomas’ wrist.

He’d be lying if he said he could feel it now; the break healed up nice and proper. But it gave him a fear of complacency for good and scared him off trees forever. There were other, better things for him to climb, anyway. 

**three.**

They bring in men on stretchers, men with their legs blown off, men with lungs that don’t work right, men without the whole left side of their faces, men who can hardly be seen at all for the bandages. Every man in is a life saved from the front, Thomas tells himself as he cleans the pus from an infected shrapnel wound. The whole arm’ll have to go; the infection’s too far along. Every man in is a life saved from the front, but Thomas isn’t so sure they want to be.

**four.**

Thomas’ sisters take after his mother, which she loved; Thomas takes after his father, which he hates. He knows the way his mouth looks in a scowl without consulting a mirror; knows the fierce jut of his jaw, of his brow, when he’s angry and lashes out. Even their eyes are the same—blue, unyielding like winter rain, icy and unforgiving.

Their hair, at least, is different. Thomas’ father is blonde, last he checked. Cut so severe it makes his cheekbones all the sharper, like razors on their own. Thomas’ hair is his mother’s, like Lucy’s, like Ann’s. “My little flock of crows,” his mum had called them, gathering them in her arms though Lucy squirmed for the embarrassment of it. “My three baby birds.”

It was only after her death Thomas learned a flock of crows is called a murder. He does not mention this fact to his father, whose eyes shine like cut glass in the dark.

**five.**

Lady Sybil joins him on his smoke break. Rather—Nurse Crawley, now. She’s quite insistent on it. He offers her a cigarette, like he always does; she declines, like she always does. There’s dried blood beneath her fingernails when she raises her hands to fix her cap.

“I’ve dinner at the house tonight,” she says, like it’s a chore. Thomas tells her so. “Well, sometimes it feels like it,” she snaps back, then frowns. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

“Keeping company with me’ll do it to you,” Thomas says through a cloud of smoke. Nurse Crawley laughs.

“What they must think, up there.”

“Do they know?” Thomas is curious; had hoped to see the last of the place back in ’14, but it sticks in the brain. Like a bullet. Nurse Crawley considers the question.

“No,” she says at last, “I suppose they don’t.”

Thomas smokes til the filter’s bit it and stamps the butt beneath the toe of his boot. “Would you care?” he asks, since Nurse Crawley hasn’t left yet. “If they knew?”

“Would you?” she asks, and walks back inside. 

**six.**

When he starts at Downton Carson brings him to meet the earl. Thomas is too handsome by half for a servant—can see it in the way Lord Grantham frowns, ever so slightly, the way posh folk always do.

“Thomas, is it?” Lord Grantham asks.

“Yes, milord.” Thomas’ posture is too straight, his jawbone too close to the skin. Lord Grantham’s frown has smoothed over, like it was never there, but he doesn’t smile.

“Good, good,” is what he says. “That will be all, Carson.”

“Very good, milord,” Carson replies, bowing his head in a stiff nod. Thomas follows suit, bowing with his whole back; it’s still not low enough.

**seven.**

There are men in the trenches Thomas wouldn’t spare a moment for back in England, men whose kisses against the duckboards a fool’s hope away from no man’s land taste like mud and cold and guilt. Men with wives and children who write near every week, men with sweethearts and plans to marry like any of them will ever make it out of here alive, men who would spit at Thomas’ feet if they met in Yorkshire, in London, in any place but this place, where time folds in on itself like Mrs Patmore’s toffee and the thudding of the German guns is as good a tune as any for a waltz. In the trenches men’s skin grows tight and their wrist bones poke out at the hems of uniforms that don’t fit anymore; Thomas’ fingers circle the jut of them, delicate, like the Crawleys’ finest china Carson never let him touch. _I am taking care to come back alive_ , Thomas writes O’Brien with porcelain hands of his own. There is too much they do not say.

**eight.**

Thomas kisses a boy when he is fifteen behind the schoolhouse. He does more than kiss the Duke of Crowborough in his private rooms in London. Love’s not meant for men like him—Thomas wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.

**nine.**

The lieutenant will speak only to Thomas and Nurse Crawley, but she is busier with her rounds than Thomas. “What did you do?” Courtenay asks at the spiral end of Thomas’ shift, when his eyes are beginning to close and he aches for a smoke. “Before the war, I mean.”

“I gathered,” Thomas replies, regretting the cool tone the second the words leave his mouth. “I was in service, if you must know. Downton Abbey. Big house up the way.”

There’re the traces of a smile on Lieutenant Courtenay’s lips. “You don’t strike me as the service type, Barrow.”

“Takes all sorts.”

“And what sort are you?”

Thomas is fleetingly glad the lieutenant can’t see his face; feels a wave of guilt right after that near swallows him whole. “The worst, of course,” he says, schooling his expression. “I’ll leave the rest to your imaginings.”

Courtenay is definitely smiling now. “That’s just unfair on you, you know. I’ll imagine all kinds of terrible things.”

Thomas stands; the next shift’s turned up. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he says, already pulling a cigarette from his pocket, “’s probably right.” He pats the lieutenant on the knee in farewell.

“I’ll hold you to that, Barrow,” Courtenay says before he leaves. Thomas smiles.

“I expect you to, sir.”

**ten.**

He learns to dance from his older sister Lucy one summer’s day when she’s in the mood. Takes his hand and sets it on her waist, spins them round the yard to music he can’t hear. When he’s older Thomas frequents the dance halls, leads women in the waltz but learns other, better dances too. He’s good at it, has always enjoyed what he’s good at, what makes people look at him and see more than the bits of his body put together. Phillip corrects his form in London, shows him what it is to be led—to trust the hand on his waist, to follow where it goes unblinkingly, like a lighthouse against the ocean Thomas has never seen. He likes that even more.

**eleven.**

“Sometimes when I wake up, I don’t remember at first,” Lieutenant Courtenay says, his voice quiet on the night-time ward. “I wonder why it’s so dark, still, and then I—then I remember—”

“None of that,” Thomas says, leaning forward in his seat to grip the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Alright? You’re out of the war. It’s not what you wanted, but you’re out of the war. Have to take comfort when we can.”

Courtenay nods, fiercely, like he’s trying to hold in tears. He brings a hand up to lay over Thomas’ own and squeezes, just for a moment. “Would you tell me about Downton?” he asks quietly, bringing his hand back into his lap. “The Abbey, I mean. What it’s like.”

Thomas bites down on the bitterness that rises in the back of his throat. _Shall I tell you about the green baize door?_ he wonders. _How it reminded me every day who I was and who I could never be? Shall I tell you about the eyes in every hall, the bed I slept in where I had to curl up to fit, the tightness of my footman’s collar like a noose, Bates’ fucking smugness, Carson’s disgust?_ He looks at the lieutenant and knows he can’t; knows he couldn’t ever upset this man, and doesn’t that twist his gut right up. He can almost hear O’Brien now: _when did you get so sentimental?_ Perhaps he always was. Perhaps no one gave him the chance to be.

“Well, it’s big,” he says at last. “A castle, almost. Towers in all four corners and a bigger one in the middle. Stone’s almost yellow-like in the sun. The grounds are the real sight, though. Borders on the woods, leaves must be red as brass this time of year. His lordship likes to walk his dog through ‘em.”

“What kind of dog?” the lieutenant interrupts. Thomas smiles; he seems to a lot, lately.

“Golden retriever, I think. No right to be as happy as he is, half the time, but that’s what you get being man’s best friend to an earl.”

Courtenay laughs, and no sweeter a sound has Thomas heard since the war began. “You sound almost jealous, Barrow.”

“By rights I should be,” Thomas replies, laughing back. “Got a cushier life than most, don’t he?”

“Maybe _I_ should be jealous, then,” Courtenay says, and for a moment Thomas thinks he’ll shut down again, like he does most times he’s reminded where he is. But though the smile wavers it remains firmly in place; brightens, even, tilted towards where Thomas is sitting by the bed.

“Steady on, lieutenant,” Thomas manages to say. Courtenay sighs.

“I do wish you would call me Edward, you know.”

“Against the rules though, sir.”

“And you’re such a stickler for them, of course.”

“Of course.”

Courtenay sighs again. “Could I at least know your name? Only, calling you _Corporal Barrow_ all the time is getting tiresome.”

“That is my name, sir,” Thomas replies.

At that, Courtenay laughs again, and buries his head in his hands for a moment. “I can see why you left Downton,” he says when he lifts his head up. “Alright, Barrow. I know when I’m beaten.”

“Very good, sir,” says Thomas.

**twelve.**

Later, at the end of his shift, when both he and the lieutenant—Edward, he’d said, though Thomas would be caught dead before saying it aloud—are fighting sleep, Thomas smooths the bedsheets with his good hand and says, close to Edward’s ear, “’s Thomas, sir,” leaving before he can second-guess himself for a smoke and his own bed, made up to Downton standard.

**thirteen.**

When Thomas is sixteen his father throws him out. He doesn’t say why—but Thomas knows.

He’s lucky to find work as a footman in York. No references, nothing to fall back on should he be turned away. The household’s new money, the lord himself a bit of alright, and despite the long hours it’s an easier life than Thomas has ever known.

It’s the butler who tells him about the job at Downton. Thomas applies, and is called for interview that week. He’s gotten good at not looking back.

**fourteen.**

Major Clarkson’s made it clear the lieutenant can’t stay. Thomas damn near loses his job over it, Nurse Crawley too, and maybe they would’ve if Clarkson didn’t need them so badly. He finds Edward, after. Can’t bear to see the hope on his face so tells him straight out the gate: “still Farley, I’m afraid.” Edward’s expression does this long, soft crumble that Thomas has to look away from. Can’t face up to the bitterness of his own failure, the whip-smart sting of Clarkson’s rebuke like a strap to the hand.

“That’s it, then,” Edward murmurs, like he’s quite forgotten Thomas is there. “All this, and now—”

“Now nothing,” Thomas says, sitting on the edge of the bed though it’s improper, and likely to bring Clarkson down on him only harder. Edward starts at the words, turns to the direction of Thomas’ voice. “Nothing’s over. Farley ent that far, and it’ll be a nicer place than this. You get better there, you get out, and you go—wherever you’d like.” Thomas swallows. The words are a distant dream to him; travel only an option beneath the auspices of war. But Edward’s got an inheritance and is an Oxford man besides—that’s more than most.

Edward swallows heavily; Thomas tracks the bob of his Adam’s apple for a slow, quiet moment. “Farley doesn’t have you,” he says at last. “Or Nurse Crawley.”

“We’ll write, I swear it.”

“And have your letters read to me like a child? I think not, corporal.” Even though it’s proper, even though Thomas had told him to, to hear Edward use his title instead of the name freely given in the dark—it hurts, more than Thomas cares to admit.

“Don’t you dare give up,” he bites out, tone sharper than it’s been since before this whole bloody war. “I won’t let you.”

“You won’t _let_ me?” Edward sounds incredulous. “So then I take it you’re the doctor now?”

“You know bloody well what I am,” Thomas snaps back, ready to dig his heels in—looks at Edward, the despair behind the anger, takes a breath, says: “I’m your friend, lieutenant. And I won’t give up on you.”

Edward is silent for another long moment. Then: “You’d be a bloody dreadful servant.”

“That’s the idea, sir,” Thomas says, smiling, and makes sure Edward can hear it in his voice.

**fifteen.**

Thomas has been at Downton hospital two months when Lieutenant Courtenay arrives, brought in on a stretcher like the rest. He can’t see much of his face except a stubborn chin and red mouth that would’ve been quick to smile, once.

Courtenay wakes from the morphine halfway through Thomas’ shift. “’s alright, lieutenant,” Thomas says, hurrying over when the nurse on duty can’t calm him down. The words are practiced, fall from his mouth as easy as any lie: “You’re not on the front anymore, you’re in Downton, Yorkshire. I’m Corporal Barrow and I’m here to help.”

The lieutenant turns his head towards the sound of Thomas’ voice, breathing heavily, sweating even in the chill. “What—happened?” he asks, voice halting and desperate.

“None of that now, alright?” Thomas replies, guiding Courtenay back down to the pillow. He goes, body stiff but not unwilling. He must be exhausted. “You rest. I’ll be around.”

“Will you?” The lieutenant’s voice is bitter, even when hazy with sleep. Thomas pauses at the end of the bed.

“It’s my job, sir,” he says. “Course I will.”

**sixteen.**

It’s the end of his shift, but something makes him turn back into the ward, through the maze of beds like the walkways are trenches themselves, though the front had never been so dry. He stops at the base of Edward’s bed; he’s sitting up, playing with the folded edge of the blanket. Thomas takes half a step and hesitates, but he must make a sound because the lieutenant lifts his head, turns uncannily towards him.

“Is someone there?” he asks, voice quiet. Then, even quieter: “Thomas?”

Thomas’ throat works for a moment. “Here, sir.”

Edward smiles and it makes the scars around his eyes wrinkle. “I thought it was you sneaking. Or,” and Thomas can barely hear him now, “I’d hoped, really.” Thomas says nothing, just walks to the head of the bed making sure Edward can hear him. “I know it’s late,” Edward says. “You must be tired.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Ever the martyr.” A moment; a heartbeat. “Would you—sit?” he asks, almost like he was going to say something else, something like _would you stay?_

“If you’ll have me, sir,” Thomas says, the words too raw by far. Edward smiles at them. It’s dark outside, still before dinner at Downton, and the nurses are changing the bedpans. Somewhere, in France, it’s raining. Edward’s moving to Farley in the morning and new patients will move in. They won’t all move out again. Inside his glove the skin’s starting to itch, and his uniform is too warm by half, and Edward has asked him to stay.

Thomas does.

**epilogue: december, 1917.**

Thomas is in the entrance hall when Carson answers the door. He’s bent over Nurse Crawley’s notes for their newest admissions, three captains and one second lieutenant from Passchendaele. He hears Edward before he sees him: “Is Sergeant Barrow in?” Thomas near drops the notes he’s holding, saving them only to avoid Carson’s contempt, and takes seven, measured steps—he’s counting—to the front door.

“That he is, lieutenant,” he answers, inexplicably breathless before Carson has the chance to reply. The butler gives him a look but takes Thomas’ words as the dismissal they are.

Thomas stares. Edward looks more hale than he’s ever seen him—which of course would be the case, after months in convalescence. He’s got a cane in one hand but is standing upright in the doorway, skin tanned under the winter sun and off-setting the spidery scars like the finest silver thread around his eyes, which once would’ve been just as blue as Thomas’. Bluer. And he’s smiling, a rare a sight as any. Thomas feels he could split open with the same.

“If this is the reception I get,” Edward says after a silence that’s a moment too long, “then it’s no wonder you never made butler.” The words startle a laugh from Thomas; it echoes inside the cavernous hall, almost profane in its abandon.

“It’s good to see you,” Thomas replies, reaching across the threshold and grasping Edward’s free hand with his own. “You look—” astonishing, heart-wrenching, miraculous, “—well.”

“And you sound it.” Edward releases his grip and smiles again. “How’s it feel? In charge of the place at last.”

“Came here to talk about Downton, did you?” Thomas asks, palm sweaty in his glove.

Edward’s smile crooks. “No,” he replies. “I didn’t.” He tilts his head from the house, towards the grounds and the woods beyond. “Spare a moment to show me around?”

Thomas has nothing much to do until the next shift change—he sets his notes on the table by the door, steps outside and closes it behind him. “Only if you promise not to tell,” he says. Edward takes his arm; shifts the weight of his body towards Thomas, smiling still.

“I can keep a secret,” Edward tells him. “If you promise me one thing?”

“Hm?”

“Call me Edward.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter @svnsvstvrk


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